


these bones are mere accessories

by insunshine



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not even supposed to fucking see it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these bones are mere accessories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gigantic and betaed by 1001cranes. (Goes AU after 208.)

I

He’s not even supposed to fucking see it. One of the guards, Ciccone, the young one with the nice ass, lets him out for a smoke break, and for five fucking minutes in the middle of September, it’s just him and his cigarette on the field behind the track.

It’s fucking perfect, until the car across the street explodes, sending Mickey to his knees with glass and mud mixing against his skin and a fucking cigarette burn in the middle of his palm because he hadn’t dropped it in time.

“What the _fuck_ —” he shouts, but he can’t even hear himself over the ringing in his ears, and the sirens that are going off everywhere.

Mickey doesn’t see a fucking thing, had nothing to do with it, thanks, but three brats are dead and there’s been substantial property damage. The fucking icing on the cake is that some mob boss might be involved and Mickey’s state-appointed DA wants him to testify.

“No fucking way.” This is the fourth meeting they’ve had in the last two weeks, and if he has to see her stupid face one more time, he’s going to break her pretty little nose. Planning it helps him sleep at night.

“Michael,” she says, her palm on the table way too fucking close to his arm. She’s too fucking young, straight out of law school and still idealistic because the system hasn’t fucked her yet. It will, though. It fucks everybody.

“I’m not doing it,” he mutters, and this is the last fucking time he’s taking this meeting. He’s eighteen in three months anyway. There’s only so much longer he’ll have to listen to this shit.

She leans forward, her Hillary Clinton dyke haircut swinging around her ears and stares him right in the eye. “You testify and you’re out of here early. No more shoveling—” she drops her voice, like it actually hurts her to say. “— _shit_ , no more shifts in the kitchen, no more cinder block walls.” She drops her hand on his shoulder and squeezes just once. He looks down at her thin fingers, her pristine fingernails, and imagines breaking them one by one. “You can go home. Spend time with your family, see your friends.”

Mickey shouts, “I don’t have any fucking friends,” and it’s the truth.

She smiles at him, not even missing a beat, and counters with, “Your family, then. I know how much they must miss you.”

“You don’t know shit,” Mickey spits, and then stares at the wall behind her head for the rest of their meeting. She doesn’t even notice.

Ciccone takes him back to his cell, and he annoys the shit out of Mickey by not saying anything, even though he was right outside the room the whole time.

“I can hear you thinking, asshole,” Mickey says, when they’re in his block.

Ciccone raises his brows behind his glasses and says, “Oh yeah? You hear me thinking about the sweet dinner that’ll be on the table when I get home? Green bean casserole with the works, fucking Coq Au Vin prepared perfectly and some of the most amazing mashed potatoes this side of Mississippi. Mmm-mmm. That what you hear me thinking about?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “You’re the one talking about eating cock,” he mutters, but it comes out weaker than it should, way more pussified than he wants it to.

“You have no culture,” Ciccone says, laughing as he locks Mickey back in. Mickey doesn’t give a rat’s ass about culture. He just wants to do his time and go the fuck to sleep.

His cellmate is a big kid named Curly, who’s 300 pounds, easy, and only just sixteen. He’s big, but he’s not dumb, and Mickey hates him, but not even half as much as he hated the last guy.

“They’re saying the mayor’s daughter was killed,” Curly says, poking his head out of the bottom bunk as Mickey climbs up into his own. He’s throwing a bouncy ball against the wall like he’s in a goddamn movie instead of an actual juvenile detention facility. Mickey hasn’t asked around, but it’s pretty common knowledge; Curly’s in here because he hacked and sold some secret government information from his daddy’s computer that could’ve gotten a bunch of rich dicks killed. He’s being taught a _lesson_.

“Where?” Mickey asks, even though he doesn’t fucking give a shit. What he’s learned from bunking with Curly for the last month is that the dude doesn’t ever shut up unless you engage, and even then he’s like one of those stupid Furby things Mandy had when she was little.

They’d stolen it from the 99¢ store and almost gotten caught on the way out because the stupid thing wouldn’t stop making noise, but Mickey still remembers how tight she’d hugged him, eight years old and practically crying from her excitement.

He’s in this stupid fucking mess because of her. He’s gonna beat the shit out of her when he gets out, swear to fucking god.

Curly’s terrible about personal space, but he’s fucking huge, so most of the time it isn’t even his fault. He squeezes out from the bottom bunk, hulking near Mickey’s bed and looking him straight in the face. He’s a tall fucker, too.

“The bombing,” Curly says, talking slow like Mickey’s the idiot here. “The Mayor’s daughter was one of the kids that got killed.”

“Bullshit,” Mickey says, sitting up so fast he’s dizzy, white noise banging around his ears like it belongs there.

Curly shrugs. “That’s probably why they want you to testify so bad. She was only like, six, or something.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Mickey repeats, but Curly’s not even listening anymore, the stupid bastard.

+

Mickey agrees to testify. He shaves his beard, he puts on his first suit, he sits in court for a whole fucking month until it’s his turn to get on the stand, and tells the truth to the parade of lawyers as best he remembers it.

He was having a smoke, Alberto Ciccone authorized it. He didn’t see anything. Okay, maybe he saw some fucking taillights, but they could’ve been going anywhere. No, it wasn’t Jimmy the Hip. No, it wasn’t. He’d remember. He wasn’t out there all that much. No it wasn’t—no it wasn’t, he’s never seen Jimmy the Hip in his life, not outside of pictures in the paper. No it wasn’t—oh shit. Maybe it fucking was.

The prosecution pulls the pictures out at the last minute. Mickey’s been warned about it, okay? He’s been prepared, sat in rooms with way more lawyers than he’s ever wanted to be around, and when they pull out the manila envelope and slide it across the table at him, they smile like the fucking lizard assholes they are.

“Have you seen this man?” they ask, all fucking eighteen of them, in their fancy suits with their preppy haircuts and toothpaste commercial teeth. What fucking dipshits.

Mickey’s all set to say no until he looks down. The pictures aren't great, grainy security cam grabs, but yeah, he’s definitely seen that fucking guy, gangly even in tight jeans and a dirty t-shirt, long stringy hair hanging down his back like he’s never met a shower he liked.

“So what if I have,” he says, and remembers that it wasn’t just the once. That he mentioned it to Ciccone too, between running drills and the dinner bell, smoking and trying not to breathe too hard. It was two or three times, always the same guy with the same stupid jeans and fucking Aerosmith shirt, probably casing the place, the stupid fuck. Shit.

“If you’ve seen him,” Preppy Lawyer Asshole #3 says, leaning close enough that Mickey can smell the Listerine on his breath. “That makes our case.”

The day Mickey’s set to testify, he pukes in the toilet beforehand, never mind that he hasn’t ralphed since he was 11 and fucking Mandy brought home the chickenpox she got from the Jackson bitch two blocks over.

His hands aren’t shaking, but he wipes his mouth, stares at his reflection, and then smokes two cigarettes one after the other. He doesn’t give a shit that the smoke alarm could go off at any second, or that the can probably has security cameras in it.

“Are you alright?” the one female lawyer on his team asks. They sic her on him all the time because she’s young and pretty and always smells like fruit.

Mickey clears his throat and says, “Let’s just fucking do this,” and she leads him in the courtroom with her hand lingering on his arm like he hasn’t broken bones for less.

It goes over quicker than he’d thought it would. He swears an oath on a bible, gets shit-canned by the defense who rail on his brushes with the law and past stint in juvie. He’s expecting it, doesn’t fucking flinch or run his mouth, just lets them talk and answers as best he can.

It turns out that Jimmy the Hip is really fucking guilty, at least if his face is any indication and the defense’s story collapses like a limp-dicked house of cards. The jury comes back quick, and when the judge reads out the ruling, Jimmy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even protest, but when he passes the row Mickey’s in, he leans close for a second, smelling like shitty cologne and shittier beer, and says, “I’m coming for you, kid,” like some old-time mobster, but without the inflection, like a dude Steven Tyler could take on is a fucking threat.

When it’s over, Mickey spends one more night in juvie, just enough time to say goodbye to Curly and Ciccone, and in the morning, he’s let out with the shirt on his back and a plastic baggie full of his shit, which is still just his Swiss army knife and his wallet.

Mandy’s waiting for him on the other side of the fence, wrapped up in a furry hat and gloves that match over a barely-there mini skirt and torn-up fishnets tucked in an old pair of his boots. She looks like a hooker from the waist down and a polar bear from the waist up.

"Where’s my fucking welcoming committee?” he asks, elbowing her in the stomach until she laughs. She’s always been ticklish right under her boobs.

“Mick,” she mumbles, voice soft and quiet, almost scared. She looks like a raccoon, her eyeliner’s so smudged and he knows what’s wrong before she even opens her mouth. “Mick, Dad’s dead.”

+

Mickey tells his parole officer about it. It's the first fucking time he’s ever called her, and she doesn’t laugh in his face, but it’s a pretty close thing. He can hear rustling paperwork on her end of the line. She’s not even paying attention.

“You know how many times Terry Milkovich was convicted, son?” she asks lazily, like it’s something Mickey could ever forget. She hums under her breath, some fucking Top 40 shit, and adds, “It was a driveby, wasn’t it? It might not have even been intentional.”

“It was _close range_ ,” Mickey yells. “Have some fucking respect!” He hangs up on her, then sits back and tries to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do. Tony and Shawn are fucking useless, as usual and Mandy’s in the kitchen, crying her face off and scrubbing out the oven, like she even knows how to turn it on. Like if the house is clean, maybe Dad’ll come back from the gunshot wound to the head.

“C’mon,” he says, knocking against her arm with his knee. “Get up. That’s the wrong way to use your knees.” She keeps on scrubbing, though, pretending like she can’t fucking hear him. “Whatever. Fuck you.” He grabs his smokes off the counter in the kitchen, and doesn’t even tell them where he’s going. Fuck all of them. Let them fend for themselves for a fucking minute, see how they fucking like it.

It's raining and maybe that's why he doesn't hear it. The gun shots that go off don’t sound like anything at all at first; little pops of air that could be anything on a fall night. It’s only when one almost slugs him in the shoulder that he starts paying attention. “What the fuck,” he yells, crouching down behind one of the neighbors’ cars. His heart is beating so hard he can’t even hear anything else.

He’s down there for what feels like an hour, palms sticky with sweat and rain, clinging to the sidewalk like the worst kind of pussy. Mandy’s the one that finds him, wrapped up in one of Dad’s old hoodies, and hands him a smoke from the dry pack in her pocket.

“What the fuck,” she says, shoving him over so she can sit, even though it’s freezing cold and still raining. She hasn’t changed out of those stupid fishnets. “We’re gonna drown out here.”

“Somebody was just shooting at me,” Mickey mutters, lighting up. He waits for her to laugh or punch him in the arm or dig up one of the guns Dad has hidden in the yard. “I wasn’t hiding,” he adds.

“Who said you were?” she asks, and then proves her point by dragging them both to their feet and making a run for the house, even though the fucking gunman could still be out there. The door’s stuck, and the longer it takes for her to jimmy it, the antsier Mickey gets.

“What the _fuck_ , Mandy,” he spits, soaked completely through, and she doesn’t bother answering, just flips him off over her shoulder and keeps rattling the knob, like that’s ever worked. “Mandy!” he shouts, and down the street, a car slams on its breaks, or maybe it’s more gunshots. Maybe it’s another bomb, and Mickey’s on his knees faster than he’s been since Firecrotch and his miracle dick.

To her credit, Mandy doesn’t say anything, just stares down at him for a couple seconds before shoving her shoulder against the jamb and pushing, like she weighs more than 90 pounds soaking wet. “The door sticks!” She shouts over the rain, like maybe Mickey missed that during the time they’ve been hanging out here like targets on a bulls eye. “The wood got warped or something over the summer,” she adds, like this is really the time to have a DIY fucking conversation.

“Mandy!” He shoves her arms, trying to force her out of the way, and she says—"I’m working on it, I’m working on it,” but she stops fucking with the doorknob and starts slamming her palm against the wood, shouting her head off.

When Shawn answers the door, he looks confused, and Mickey’s all set to pound his face in before he hears the _pop pops_ of gunshots glancing against brick again. Either Jimmy the Hip has the worst fucking hitman on his team, ever, or they just want Mickey scared. Well, they win. He’s fucking terrified.

“Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot,” he says, shoving against Shawn, but talking to Mandy, pulling off his soaked-through clothes as he walks back through the house to his bedroom.

Mandy follows him, shaking out her hair, pulling the sweatshirt off and tossing it down by the door. “You should call your parole officer again,” she says with a shrug, shivering in just her bra. She’s too fucking thin.

“You’re too fucking thin,” he says, and she shrugs as she flips him off, wandering away before he has a chance to slam the door in her face.

“ _You’re_ the fucking idiot,” she yells from her room, and then, “Call your parolie.”

Mickey doesn’t. He can handle this on his own. He’s a fucking Milkovich, okay? He’s got more survival instincts than rich people have cars. Count ‘em.

It gets worse. Doesn’t stop fucking getting worse. Shawn breaks his arm when a car backfires outside the Kash & Grab and he’s thrown to the pavement so hard it nearly shatters his ribs. Some fucker from DSS comes by and threatens to take Mandy, even though Mickey’ll be 18 in less than a month and Tony’s 22. He sees Ian fucking Gallagher everywhere, like the kid is his shadow, even though he’s ever there whenever Mickey turns around.

“I can’t believe you’re making me go alone,” Mandy whines two weeks later, standing in the middle of her room in another one of Dad’s old hoodies and nothing else. She’s packing up, going to stay with Grandma Harry in Jersey, even though it’ll fuck up her junior year and she’ll have to take some classes over. She’ll be with family, anyway, and far away, which is the important part, instead of with some foster parents that’ll fuck her up or hurt her or worse. “I don’t give a shit about school,” she says when he mentions it, sitting on the edge of her bed and punching him hard in the kidney, hard enough to bruise.

“You’re graduating,” he says, but it's not like the educational system has done shit for them.

Mandy snorts, using one of the elastics on her wrist to twist her hair up and away from her face. “Like you’re one to talk, asshole,” she says, and then punches him again, in the shoulder this time. “Get outta here if you’re not helping.”

“I’m helping, I’m helping,” he says, and pushes from her bed to his feet, throwing shit in boxes with her for the next hour.

Mickey’s outside when the fire starts, which is probably a blessing more than a curse, but it doesn’t seem that way, not when his house is fucking burning and the front door sticks. He shouts so loud he’s hoarse, and the neighbors from next door, the rich ones who close their blinds every time they hear the beginnings of a fight, are actually the first that come running, the pretty blonde wife, too old to really be beautiful, shouting, “Oh, get away from the door!” and, “I’ve called the police, honey. It’ll be fine.” She clings onto his arm, pressed-on fingernails digging into his skin.

The kids get out of the house. He doesn’t know how it happens, but Mandy’s doubled over, coughing thickly, Tony and Shawnie behind her, making sure she's out safe.

Mickey doesn’t know when he starts breathing again, but it’s not soon enough. His lungs are burning, and not from just the smoke. The fire trucks don’t get there soon enough, and Mickey’s dizzy by the time they do, dragging in heavy lungfuls of air that just don’t do the trick. The whole neighborhood's crowding around, standing close, and Mickey hates them all, like it wasn't already hard enough to breathe. Mandy’s shaking, Tony and Shawnie are covered in soot and ash, and the fucking Gallaghers are all there too, like Mickey needs the neighborhood drama club hanging around and getting in his business.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Mickey mumbles, when the fire’s mostly been put out and somebody’s shoved a blanket over his shoulders.

Ian ambles over, dripping with sympathy, and Mickey hates him so much his throat is thick with it. “You okay?” he asks. His voice is low, so low no one else can hear, and Mickey shoves him aside, not even bothering to look him in the face.

“Shouldn’t you be talking to Mandy?”

Ian shrugs. “Wanted to talk to you,” he says, leaning back on his heels. Mickey’s shoulders are itching from the borrowed blanket and the proximity. He’s spoiling for a fight.

“Get away from me,” Mickey says. Now is not the time to deal with Ian fucking Gallagher. Under his breath, he mutters, “I told you we were done, Firecrotch. Why the hell do you keep coming around?”

Ian blinks at him, too-big dark eyes behind his lashes, like a baby deer or something. His bottom lip is caught under his teeth, ragged like he’s been chewing on it. If Mickey’s staring, it’s only because it’s been a Day. Fuck this. Fuck Jimmy the Hip. Fuck everything.

They end up down at the police station: Mickey, his brothers and Mandy, plus the Gallagher gang. Fiona’s got her arm wrapped around Mandy’s shoulders, like she’s being comforting, like anything could be comforting right now.

Markovich is the one that lays it out for them, even though he hasn’t really been around all summer. “There’s been substantial damage to the property,” he says, dropping the bomb on them quick. Mickey appreciates it, but that’s when he stops listening, because _fuck_ , fuck this. They don’t have insurance on the house. Dad had nothing but debt before he died, and now that he’s gone, it’s their responsibility.

Shit.

Eventually somebody—the younger Gallagher girl, he thinks—says, “Mandy, come back and stay at our house, okay? You can share my room.”

Mandy tilts her head, just looking at him, and Mickey has no idea what he says, probably, “Get the fuck out of here. It’s a warm bed.”

Ian meets his eyes, too, hands stuffed in his pockets and clears his throat before saying, “You, uh. You guys can come too.” He’s looking directly at Mickey with an obvious invitation, even though they’re done and Mickey’s been saying so for months. Fucking Gallaghers. Always sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. “Warm beds for everybody.”

Tony and Shawnie look at him pathetically, and Mickey’s all set to say no, _somebody_ has to deal with this mess, and he’s sure as shit not doing it alone, but Shawn’s arm’s still in a sling, and Tony’s got ash in his hair.

“Yeah,” Mickey hears himself say. “Get gone, douchebags.” Ian clears his throat, ready to make himself really fucking obvious in front of both their families and the entire fucking Southside PD like the idiot he is. “I’ll be over later, maybe,” Mickey adds, watching as Ian’s shoulders sink with something like a relief. What a stupid fucking kid. “Gotta take care of this shit.”

Shawnie nudges him with his good arm and says, “Mick, you want me to stay?” And Mickey does, yeah, but just so he doesn’t have to go through a bunch of paperwork alone.

“Go, while the offer’s still good,” he says, and doesn’t look up until they’re all gone. It’s weird, for a second, without them around. Mickey can’t remember the last time he was really alone outside of the pisser, and that doesn’t even count most of the time, in their house. Their _house_ , shit.

Markovich comes back, still in his off-duty clothes, and holding a thick manila folder Mickey recognizes as his own. He’s smiling, but the dude’s an idiot. It could be over anything.

“I have good news, better news, and bad news.” He drops the folder casually on the desk as he sits, and Mickey’s smart, okay? He’s fucking observant. He sees his name printed on the tab, proof. “What do you want to hear first?”

“Bad,” Mickey says. “Always.”

II

Mickey Milkovich dies on a Tuesday. It’s not a gunshot to the brain or residual damage to his lungs. He’s not attacked in an alley or forced to beg for mercy he’ll never get.

It’s a car accident. Maximum impact while he’s in the cop car being driven home. Mickey hates—hated—cops, but after the fire at his house, after the death of his father, and the deterioration of his family, no one could blame him for being exhausted. No one could blame him for taking the ride.

His body, from what they say, is so mangled there’s not much more than teeth to identify, and his younger sister loses her mind when she hears, shattering nearly all the glass in the police station and scratching every piece of skin she can reach.

There isn’t a funeral, because Mickey wouldn’t have wanted one, but the Gallaghers throw a party, sort of. Tony and Shawnie go, because Mandy’s already been packed up to Jersey, and it’s fine, it’s better, anyway, even though Mickey would have wanted her to have a good time and get the fuck on with her life.

He’s not supposed to call. There are hundreds of rules and Mickey’s signed so many pieces of paper that he’s sick of seeing his own name, and now it’s not even his anymore. Mickey Milkovich is dead, some hood kid that got what was coming to him after a life full of bad choices and worse follow-through. The world’s better off without him, whatever, whatever, whatever. The point is, he’s not supposed to call. He’s in West Virginia, out of sight for just a second, to take a fucking piss, Jesus, and he’s already doing the one thing he swore up and down he wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” Mandy says as she answers, voice thick and heavy, tearful. She sounds wrecked. Mickey’s quiet on his end of the line, the cell he nicked heavy and hot in his palm, burning against his ear. “Fucking what?” Mandy presses, and at least that’s something. She sounds mad now, instead of heartbroken. “I can hear your breathing, asshole,” she adds suddenly, voice sharp and barbed. “Is this fucking Logan Bellavance again? I told you I wasn’t interested, you asshole.” Her voice gets quieter, further away, and Mickey hears her lighter go. “Fucking hell,” she mutters, and he imagines her in a different kitchen in another state, sitting at the table wrapped in Dad’s clothes and his boots, smoking to get just a little bit closer to them.

She hangs up mid-rant, and Mickey wants to tell her he’s fine, that he’s not a coward, that this is for the best. No way would Jimmy the Hip let any of them live if he thought Mickey was still breathing. She’d never forgive him if she knew the truth, but he’d never forgive himself if his kid sister ended up in a body bag, so it’s an even trade.

“Hey kid,” his escort yells, banging against the door hard enough it rattles on its hinges. “Get your ass out here. They’re paying me to babysit, and you're wasting my time.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey yells back, but he flushes, dropping the phone in the dirty toilet water before pushing out of the bathroom and glaring at the asshole they have keeping an eye on him until he gets to where he’s going. Mickey’s never been this far east, never really left Illinois, unless you count the times they had to drive to Milwaukee to pick up Dad.

West Virginia is shitty. And it’s way too fucking hot for fall.

The place he’s stashed in is a sort of weigh station for idiots like him that tried to fight up against the mob and lost. It’s a squat little thing that looks more like a chicken coop than an actual house, but there’s running water that gets hot enough to shower comfortably, and a couch that pulls out.

“We’re gonna be here a couple days,” his bodyguard says, this big beefcake that has way more muscles than brain cells. He throws a shopping bag across the bed and says, “Go fix your hair,” with the kind of asshole smirk that Mickey should’ve wiped off his face by now.

“Go fix my _what_?”

Beefcake smiles. He’s missing a couple teeth. “You’re a new man, shithead,” he says. “Go turn into one.”

Mickey stares at him for a couple seconds, eyes scanning through the plastic bag by his hip. Peroxide and a change of clothes. Like that’ll actually make much of a difference.

“Go,” Beefcake says, shoving Mickey to the bathroom with one hand and curling the other around the remote, flipping the TV on. Less than an hour later, Mickey’s a whole new person. Sort of.

+

There aren’t a lot of options, once he gets situated. Long Island is cold and flat and the little house he’s in has shitty ventilation. The first three days, he sleeps like the dead; because he’s been up for what feels like a year. His eighteenth birthday comes and goes, and he’s passed out for the whole thing, not that it matters. Mickey Milkovich is dead, remember?

After he’s been there a week, his case officer comes to visit. She’s young, but not young enough to still be stupid about it, and she has nice enough tits that he notices, even though he’s not interested. Her name is Janet, and she has a space between her two front teeth.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says, sitting primly on the beat up couch that came with the house. “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with so much tragedy at such a young age.” She sounds sincere, still smiling behind her geek-chic glasses, and Mickey thinks about mouthing off, thinks about fucking her tits and ignores both urges.

“Yeah,” he coughs out instead, and holds out his hand to shake. His fingernails are neat and his skin’s cleaner than it’s been since he was a kid and Mom still believed in daily baths. “You too.” He tries a smile, but it doesn’t really work on his face, so he settles on not rolling his eyes at her instead. Baby steps.

She takes a breath before she launches into her spiel, and Mickey only half-listens. The house is paid off, so he doesn’t have to get a job right away, but it’s probably a good idea because there’s only a limited amount of money the state is offering up a month. He’s an army brat, or at least Ben Dalton is, and his mother died when he was 11. So not that far off from the truth, really.

“Ben,” he questions, cutting her off somewhere in the middle. She’s got doctored receipts and passports with baby pictures of him that he’d recognize anywhere. He’s not sure where she got them, though, considering he’s never even left the continental United States.

“Dalton,” she volleys back, grinning at him like they’re friends now after a couple hours of shooting the shit that’s Mickey’s new life. The way she shifts on the couch makes her suit jacket tighten against her chest, and Mickey doesn’t stare, but at least the view is nice.

“I don’t, uh,” Mickey starts, chewing on his thumbnail and trying not to fidget on his seat. This is consecutively longer than he’s been awake for a while. “I don’t know how to do anything,” he says eventually, even though it’s not strictly true. “Need me to hotwire a car in thirty seconds? Or hold up a liquor store, or—”

Mickey doesn’t get hysterical. He’s never been known for his even temper, but he doesn’t lose his shit. He doesn’t. Janet cuts him off. She’s smart, and when she smiles, even if it’s not genuine, she uses all of her teeth. 

“Ben,” she says, and it takes Mickey a good thirty seconds to remember that she’s talking to him. “I understand that this is difficult. The transition is never easy, and especially with your—”

Mickey glares. “My what?” he asks, voice flat, but she stares through him, not intimidated at all, never mind that they’re alone out here, and technically, Mickey’s dead already. He could kill her, he could snap her neck and steal her car, and nobody would ever fucking know.

“You’ve been under an inordinate amount of stress,” she says calmly. “You’re doing fine, and no one, least of all me, expects an immediate change, but I’m here to talk with you about your options.” Her eyes are bright behind her glasses, she’s excited to be talking about this stuff, probably gets hot thinking about the challenge. “I think the first step is high school graduation, don’t you?”

She scoots forward on the shitty couch, ass practically hanging off the worn cushions as she grabs his hand between both of hers.

“You’re just eighteen,” she continues, staring into his eyes like she actually knows him. “Most kids your age are looking at colleges right now. You could take a few prep courses to get your GED and then be ready to join them.”

Mickey’s never spent a second of his life thinking about college. He thought he’d probably be in the Pen when he turned eighteen, in the cell block a couple down from Dad with Mandy visiting them both on the third Thursday of every month.

“Listen,” he says, and she looks so excited that he almost hates to break it to her. “I don’t wanna get my GED and I don’t wanna go to college. I’m only here and not dead because I was lucky, and I didn’t want my sister and brothers to be dead too.” He leans his hands on his knees, fingernails digging through the thin material of his sweatpants and down to his skin. “So you don’t have to,” he waves his hand around before he really thinks about it, and thinks, _too gay_ before he can stop himself. He spits out, “I appreciate that you took the drive out here to try and give me my options, but I’m cool with hanging out until somebody figures out where I am and doesn’t miss this time.”

Janet’s mouth thins out until he can’t see her lips, and he’s expecting her to storm out, because fuck, if he was dealing with somebody like him, he’d sure as shit have left a long time ago.

“I am not going to let that happen,” she says, and the steely resolve under her words is what’s surprising. She’s not smiling anymore, she’s not gentle, and when her jacket unbuttons, he gets a load of the Glock 19 sitting pretty in its holster by her waist.

“You really think bleaching my fucking hair and moving me a couple states away is really gonna make a difference?”

She grips onto his arm hard enough that it hurts and leans close enough that he can smell the spearmint on her breath. “You have the opportunity to make something of yourself,” she says seriously, clearly buying into the hype. “Please don’t be another idiot hood kid that wastes my money and my time. I’ve dealt with enough of those.”

She leaves a half hour later, leaving behind packets and pamphlets, and even more paperwork he has to sign. There’s also his new license and his passports with stamps in them that look legit, and family photos that are doctored, but not so that he can notice at all, even though he’s never seen any of the people in the pictures that aren’t him.

+

Janet drops by another three times before Mickey finally lets her in, and they just scowl at each other for a while before she pastes on a smile and says, “Ben, so nice to see you again. Could you please let me inside? It’s starting to rain.”

Mickey’s all set to say no before he notices the neighbors across the street. They’re not nosing around or anything, but the younger one, the daughter, probably, sees his door open and smiles, starting to wave. Mickey freezes.

“Ben,” Janet repeats, strain in her voice. “We should really get inside.” If she says any more, he doesn't hear it, just drags her into the house forcefully, tugging on her arm and trying not to let his breathing get too erratic. She must see, though, she must know how nervous he is, because she smiles at him a little more gently and says, quietly, “It’s okay. This whole neighborhood has been vetted, Ben. You have nothing to worry about from the Belkises.”

“Russian? You know Russian’s have mob ties, don’t you?” Mickey tries to keep calm in an effort to get his heartbeat regular, but his voice sounds creaky and weird. It’s probably better than puking all over her, though. Her shoes look new.

“Greek,” she supplies with a grin. “In the area forty years, own a chain of restaurants in Astoria, no ties to O'Halloran whatsoever. You have nothing to worry about.”

Mickey closes his eyes. Counts to five, and then ten, and then fifty, for the fuck of it, because the situation is awkward enough already. “Listen,” he says, and she nods, still looking straight at him when he opens his eyes. “I never really thought I’d make it past eighteen.”

It’s a weird thing, telling the truth. It makes his palms itch, skin buzzing with the danger of it, and Janet ruins the whole fucking thing by _smiling_ again and saying, “Ben, I’m here to keep you safe.” It’s a crock of carbonated Disney shit and Mickey doesn’t believe her, but it’s starting to get easier, answering to Ben.

“Have you considered your options?” she asks, like they’ve been communicating all this time instead of her coming by routinely and him pretending he can’t hear the bell. “I really feel like getting your degree would be the best thing for you. You’ll have so many more doors opened to you.”

Now that he’s less exhausted, now that it’s sunk in that he’ll never actually see his family again, Mickey’s been sleeping less. He feels gritty and exhausted and angry, but at least he can deal with anger. He’s familiar with the push and pull of nerves in his gut, and the way his hands feel as they flex.

“I don’t want,” he starts, but a car down the street takes the turn too quickly; breaks the speed limit or something, tires squealing loudly against the asphalt and Mickey’s down on his knees and covering his head faster than he’s ever moved in his life, remembering the rain in his face and their stuck front door; the sure knowledge in his gut that he and Mandy were going to get gunned down in front of their own house and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Ben,” Janet says, but her voice is thin and far away. She’s still sitting up on the couch, like she wants her brains blown to bits all over the ugly brown-carpeted floor. She repeats his name, once or twice, but Mickey can’t pick himself up again until all he can hear is their breath and the slosh of rain outside.

She touches his shoulder and he knocks her hand off, nearly breaking her fingers without even meaning to.

“Don’t,” he says, ugly and rough. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

She doesn’t stay much longer, not that Mickey blames her, but she does leave another packet of pamphlets behind. All of them have encouraging subject lines like, Be The Best Vet You Can Be! or Military Service Could Be For You! Mickey flips through the ROTC booklet, looking at the pictures of the cadets in training, and tries not to imagine Ian Gallagher there, doing his fucking jumping jacks or training regimen. He thinks about Ian Gallagher in Kabul or Kuwait getting his head blown open. That seems more likely.

He flips through the community college course offerings and skims through half of it before throwing it back down on the floor and taking a nap. He has dreams he can’t remember and wakes up screaming, so it’s business as usual, pretty much.

On Thursday, he walks down into the town center, which is made up of a whole lot of nothing but a couple chain stores and a tiny park. He steals a cell phone from a teenager with too much gel in her hair and too little skirt on her legs. She reminds him of Mandy, and he doesn’t even need the phone, he’s got no one to call, but he swipes it anyway. He’s long gone by the time she notices, but he can hear her shrieking at her little brother from the other side of the park, shouting words he can’t make out.

He calls Mandy when he gets back in, breaths coming in tight and quick. She answers on the fifth ring, voice quiet and low. It’s late. He hadn’t even realized how long he’d been outside. “Hello?” She sounds like she just woke up. “Matt?” she asks, and he can hear the smile in her voice. After a beat, she says, “Ian?” and Mickey hangs up so fast it feels like his skin is burning.

He stomps the shit out of the phone on the asphalt driveway the next morning and buries the pieces in the front yard.

The little girl from across the street is coming out of her house as he’s going back in, and she waves again before Mickey has a chance to duck her. She crosses the road without checking for traffic and almost gets killed for her trouble. Mickey’s heartbeat goes double-time.

“Hi!” she says when she reaches him, not phased over her near death at all. Mandy was the same way. Fucking girls that never learn. “I’m Casey,” she says, holding her hand out politely and grinning brightly at him. “We live right across the street.”

Mickey thinks of eight different things to say that’d make her cry in a second, and finally goes with, “Mickey,” before he can stop himself. The name Ben Dalton has been in his head for weeks, and he’s never once had to introduce himself. Fuck. _Fuck_. “Uh,” he hedges, and thinks about what the hell Tony and Shawnie would have to say if they saw him tongue-tied by a twelve year old. “Dalton,” he pushes the surname through his teeth. “Ben Michael Dalton,” he adds, even though he’s pretty sure the middle name is wrong. The FB-fucking-I wouldn’t have taken such a stupid chance. “People call me Mickey.”

Casey leans forward, giggling, and whispers, “My real name’s Cassandra, but only my grandma calls me that.” She has a lisp and freckles across the bridge of her nose and he’s pretty sure her parents would have him arrested just for standing next to her.

“Casey’s a good name,” he says, for lack of anything else. He feels awkward, too big for his skin. He feels like an idiot. Before she has a chance to ask any more questions, someone pokes out of her garage, calling her back over across the street in a language Mickey doesn’t recognize.

“I was just saying _hi_ , Daddy,” she says when she gets close enough, kissing the older guy’s cheek. “Mickey’s new to the neighborhood.”

“Mickey’s an adult,” her dad says, but at least he’s not glaring anymore. “He probably doesn’t want kids hanging around.” Daddy Belkis isn’t wrong. The more hanging around people do, the more likely they are to get dead.

Mickey thinks about Mandy, thinks about Ian Gallagher calling her in the middle of the night, and wonders if that means they’re still friends or if they’re more, if he fucked her because she asked him to. He wonders if Ian fucked her to get closer to him.

It makes his stomach hurt, but he jerks off to the thought of it later, tugging himself off hard in the bathroom and getting most of it in the toilet.

He won’t call Mandy again.

III

Six months into living in the little house in Huntington, Janet gets transferred off his case. He’s watched enough TV in the last half year to know people don’t usually get a chance to say goodbye, not according to Law & Order, anyway.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ben,” she says, laughing at him as she settles down in her usual spot on his couch. “My office looks like anyplace else.” She leans close, patting the chair next to her and gesturing for him to sit. “Sometimes, I even wear sensible shoes.” He’s gotten a little more furniture, mostly yard sale finds and casing the Salvation Army, and a job, too, bagging groceries at the Wegmans in town. It’s pretty shitty, but at least it gets him out of the house.

She asks him how it’s going, how his new boss is, and only then does she mention that she’s pregnant, swiping her hair back away from her sweaty cheek and grinning genuinely across from him. She’s just a couple months along, she says, like anybody looking at her wouldn’t be able to tell from the swell of her breasts alone. “My boyfriend’s from Chicago,” she adds. “So we’re moving back there, to be closer to his family.” Mickey flinches, but Janet doesn’t notice. “But Graham is great,” she adds. “You’ll do really well with him.”

She tries to hug him as she leaves, and he lets her, but only because it’s the last time they’ll ever see each other. She doesn’t cry, she’s a fucking agent, but she clings onto his hand for a second longer than she should.

“Take care of yourself, Mickey,” she says quietly, and then she’s gone. She doesn’t turn to look at him over her shoulder, and he doesn’t watch her leave. 

The next time he sees her, it’s a month later and she’s a face on the news; missing and suspected dead. Her parents have come willingly to the media, begging for information, for her body back. A month after that, they find her. Mickey’s never spent so much time chasing headlines in his life.

The official story, according to the New York Times, is kidnapping. Janet was left for dead and starved, it says. Her faculties couldn’t support her or her child. It’s written right there in black and white newsprint, but Mickey doesn’t believe it.

Graham comes on Wednesdays, typically. He’s heavy, in his late 40s and doesn’t spend a lot of time encouraging Mickey to fulfill himself through getting his GED or taking up night courses, but he’s nice enough, and he always brings a case of beer with him on the nights he drops in. Mickey usually takes the early shift at the store and gets home by seven. Graham’s obsessively punctual, though. He's usually there first.

When he hasn’t shown by eight on the next Wednesday, Mickey turns all the lights off and makes a big show of stepping out. He breaks in through the first floor bathroom in the back of the house and barricades himself in the closet in his room for the whole night. He’s still alive when the sun comes up, but Mickey waits another hour before crawling out, keeping out of sight of the windows and trying to make the least amount of noise as possible.

He keeps the phone on the table in the kitchen and spends a whole ten minutes trying to remember if the bushes in the front of the house are tall enough to cover if he needs to make a run for it. Although, if someone is looking into his house already, Mickey’s pretty much fucked, regardless.

There’s a message from Graham on the machine—“Sorry, son, got a flat. I’ll hitch a ride out there if it’s not too late when Matt gets here, but if not, I’ll just catch you next week.” There’s a little static, but nothing else, and Mickey feels like an idiot for the rest of the morning. The crick in his neck is mocking him. He’s got a shift at noon, though, and it’s payday, so Mickey gets himself together and leaves an hour early. If someone’s been following him, he wants to fuck up their routine.

Wegman’s is bigger than the Kash & Grab; it’s bigger than pretty much anything they have back at home, and Mickey thought up eighteen different ways to case the place his first day there. Ben Dalton wouldn’t do that, though, and Mickey’s not him, but it’s getting easier to fake it.

The message light on the machine is flashing again when Mickey gets back in, and he drinks a beer as he checks it, listening as Graham makes his excuses, asking to talk when Mickey gets a chance. The clock on the oven says it’s just after seven, so Mickey figures it’s not too late to call back and lets the condensation from the bottle cool his sweating palms. 

“I assume you’ve heard the news about Agent Milton,” Graham says when he answers, instead of hello. Mickey shrugs, chewing on his mouth to keep from saying anything stupid and working the label off his beer.

“Yeah,” Mickey says eventually, when the quiet gets to be too much. “That sucks.”

Graham is quiet again for longer than Mickey likes, and the phone cord is long enough that he can pace the kitchen to work off his nerves. “The Bureau believes,” he starts, and Mickey doesn’t breathe for the ten seconds it takes for him to continue. “They think it was James O’Halloran, son,” he says, and there it is, right out in the open. Jimmy the Hip. Of course.

“Okay,” Mickey says, mind racing. “If he knew where I was, I’d be dead,” he reasons. “So she must’ve—did she tell or didn’t she?” He has the worst kind of stomachache, the kind that no amount of shitting’ll fix, and Graham’s quiet again. “Is,” Mickey starts, but he doesn’t have the momentum to put up a fight. “Mandy and my brothers? They dead?”

They’re hood kids. They could be rotting for months and no one would give a shit. No one would even notice.

“No,” Graham says, and Mickey’s so relieved his knees give out. He ends up half crouched on the linoleum, clutching to the sink like it can keep him steady. The room’s spinning in front of him, the black and white floor tiles hazing back and forth in view.

Mickey swallows. “So, that’s. That’s good, right?”

There aren’t a lot of ways to describe Graham. He’s competent and he’s committed to keeping Mickey alive, but he’s not Janet. Janet would have more words, she’d have something to say to keep his brain from going crazy. She’s dead now, though. Another person dead because of him and useless. Fuck.

“It might be wise to move you from the area,” Graham says, "but Agent Milton was accomplished. She would have never divulged your location.”

Mickey stays quiet, listening for feet on the front walkway, for shifts on the second floor, but there’s nothing, just him and Graham almost breathing in time. “She was pregnant, man,” he says, wiping his free hand over his face. “No way she cared more about me than she did about that baby.” 

Graham doesn’t disagree, just clears his throat and says, “We’ll have you processed somewhere new by morning.”

Ben Dalton never fit right anyway.

+

In the next year, Mickey bounces from Modesto to Austin to Boston, but he can’t stick anyplace for long. Graham stays with him, magically doesn’t get himself killed, but it’s still tricky business. When he gets to stay in one place longer than a month, Mickey starts to get antsy.

It takes six months in Florida to relax enough to get himself a job and another six to really get comfortable. Mickey took the GED somewhere between Modesto and Mississippi and failed it twice before doing passably well on try number three. The online courses were annoying, but considering he didn’t have to pay for it out of pocket, it wasn’t so bad. 

They’re in Miami, so Mickey’s been brushing up on his Spanish; works as a sales clerk at some hoity-toity sun glass place weekday mornings and waits tables at one of the big beach-side hotels on nights and weekends. It’s not a great gig, but it’s fast money, and lots of it, and he’s been working with Ricardo the bartender on slower nights to learn how to tend bar. It’s another class he’d have to take, another grand he’d have to give away, but it’d be worth it, maybe, to stop having to smile pretty at rich bitches with big hair and bigger bank accounts while handing over food they’ll only just throw up later.

Mickey’s seen it. It never gets less gross.

“Yo, Roberts,” someone shouts from the kitchen, and Mickey looks over his shoulder almost immediately. He’s been Chet Roberts longer than anybody but himself, and it’s not even hard to remember his backstory anymore. No one’s called him Mickey in over a year. “Took the drink order for table five, but Rico’s swamped at the bar. Needs my help.” He grins, because he’s an asshole and says, “‘sides, I get more tips than he does.” 

Jeremy’s the only other kid his age that works at the resort all year long. The other servers are college kids, and they might be around the same age, but there’s a definite difference. Jeremy’s rich, but he doesn’t flaunt it like everybody else. He’s all right. Mickey doesn’t want to punch him in the face every day, anyway.

“Table Five,” Jeremy repeats. “Bottle of wine and a coke,” Jeremy slings the drinks onto Mickey’s tray before taking a quarter turn and cupping his ass through his slacks. They fuck sometimes, when Jeremy’s tired of pussy and Mickey’s too lazy to get laid somewhere else. It’s an arrangement that works out pretty well for everybody involved, and it doesn’t hurt that Jeremy’s big, built all over with muscles on top of his muscles.

“Yeah, yeah, keep it in your pants,” Mickey says under his breath, but he’s laughing, and Jeremy winks at him before heading over to the bar where the line’s already circled around twice.

Mickey’s still smiling when he walks back out onto the beach. He’s almost done with his last shift of the weekend, and the only plans he has for the next day and a half involve sleep and maybe another lesson if he can get his ass up early enough. Too many tourists hang out during peak hours, and he’s been learning how to surf. It’s easier, falling on his face if there’s no one around to watch.

“Hey,” he says, shifting the tray to his hip to get the glasses situated. “I’m Chet, I’ll be taking over your service today.” He sets the drinks down and only looks at his customers when one of them starts to cough.

Ian Gallagher’s hair is shorter, buzzed, but still a violent red, and there are even more freckles on his face. There’s a pair of medical issue silver crutches tucked unobtrusively against the unused chair to his right, too, and the fingers of his left hand are bandaged.

Mickey swallows down every single thing he’d thought he’d say if they ever saw each other again and tries to breathe. The sand shifts under his shoes, and he’s unsteady, but he just smiles and says, “Sir? You alright? Can I get you something?”

Ian just stares at him, while his dinner companion says, “Just the Coke should be fine, I think.” He smacks Ian on the back and the asshole might miss the wince that spreads across his face, but Mickey doesn’t. _Shit_.

“Of course,” Mickey says, digging out his pad to take down their dinner orders. “What can I get you folks for dinner?”

Ian’s friend—shaggy hair and light eyes. Built, but not too much. Definitely not military—grins like the dick he is and says, “I’ll take the papaya salad.” He scoots forward on his seat, fingers curling over Mickey’s arm as he speaks and whispering like they’re friends. Mickey hasn’t gotten into a fight in a couple of years, but he’s thinking this might be the right time to pick it up again. “Dressing on the side, though, okay? The white vinaigrette with almond, I think.” He would do it, probably, if it didn’t mean losing his job.

Mickey nods thoughtfully, but all he writes down is _asshole_. He clears his throat, looks Ian Gallagher in the face and says, “And for you, sir?”

Ian stares at him, eyes narrowed like maybe he’s crazy, like maybe he’s hallucinating, and Christ, Mickey hopes the war’s fucked him up enough that he thinks he is. There’s a cut right across his left cheek, from behind his ear down to the dip of his chin and criss-crossing cuts on his right eyebrow. His mouth is still the same. Mickey focuses on his injuries, the yappy dog of the lady down the beach and his friend’s stupid, stupid haircut. After a minute, Ian clears his throat and mumbles, “Uh, same,” dazed, and looks away.

Mickey resists the urge to laugh, hysteria bubbling through him fierce and crazy and says, “okay, so that’s two papaya salads with the white-almond vinaigrette dressing on the side?” He’s mostly repeating himself for Ian’s sake, but when he doesn’t notice or snap out of it, Mickey beats it, heading back to the kitchen to put the order in and pick up the food for the rest of his tables.

It’s a busy night, thank fuck, and Mickey only gets to check back on them the once. The friend is arguing about something, joking, trying to get Ian to engage, but Ian’s not even looking at him, only really focuses when Mickey drops back by.

“How’re you guys doing?” he asks with a clap of his hands to get their attention. Ian’s eyes widen and Mickey notices even more scars, curved against the hollows of his eyes; little nicks that could be anything but probably aren’t. It looks like he took razor blades to the face, and Mickey’s spent a lot of time during the past two years and change thinking nobody had it worse than him, but he was obviously wrong.

“I’m fine, Chet,” the friend says, over-enunciating the _t_ and smiling like a dick. Gallagher’s pals have seriously downgraded in the time since they’ve hung out, apparently. “Thanks for asking.”

“And you, sir?” Mickey asks. Ian’s eyes flick over him again, still surprised but less dazed, and he shakes his head once, something small but firm.

He clears his throat and says, “I’m fine, too,” and takes a healthy sip of his Coke so he doesn’t have to say more. 

Every word out of Mickey’s mouth feels awkward, scripted and wrong, and he should call Graham right away, should’ve called him the second somebody recognized him, but it’s been a busy night. He just hasn’t had the time.

It’s busy. It’s April, but it's Florida, so it's already hot, and tourists are obviously enjoying the warmer weather. Mickey’s seen more fanny-packs in Florida than he’s ever wanted to see in his life. He gets Sarah, one of the college kids, to pick up the check for table five, and finishes his shift in the storeroom, getting a head start on inventory. It’ll probably get him in trouble later, but he’s doing work, not goofing off, so what can they really say?

He leaves late, picking up his check from Josie, resident goddess and assistant manager, and purposefully takes the long way home on his bike, just in case anyone’s following.

+

Mickey goes for his lesson just as the sun is cresting over the clouds. He falls flat on his face a lot, nearly gets his lights clocked out by the board and ends up dry heaving a shit ton of salt water when he gets back to shore. It’s still a pretty great morning.

“You see that?” he asks Jeremy, who’s lounging on a towel and pretending to “teach”. He’s got sunglasses on and his eyes closed, so fuck him forever anyway.

“Did I watch you wipe out, you mean?” Jeremy asks with a smile. He still hasn’t opened his eyes. “Yes, I did. Nice air there, buddy.” He smacks Mickey’s leg, curling his fingers around his calf. The sand from his palm mixes with the ocean water still clinging to Mickey’s skin, making him itch. The backs of his knees have always been ticklish; Jeremy knows from experience, and it's obvious where this is going before his hand even starts to creep north.

“No way,” he says, huffing out a laugh, but Jeremy’s a sneaky fucker, and Mickey’s in his lap before he even thinks about it, their legs tangling awkwardly together. “See what you did?” Mickey asks, but he’s laughing, shivery from where Jeremy’s still touching him.

Jeremy winds an arm across Mickey’s body, cradling him like a baby. He’s pretty immobilized with Jeremy wrapped all around him like some sort of mutant pretzel, and for a second, Mickey thinks about Jimmy the Hip, thinks about deep covers and Janet being dead and starts to panic at being held so close.

“Hey,” Jeremy says quietly, _gentle_ , like Mickey’s a chick, maybe, or a scared animal. “Hey, Chet,” and Mickey’s gotta get out of there, half-hard and definitely still soaked. “What the fuck?” he asks when Mickey pushes up to his feet. Jeremy’s still wearing sunglasses, these huge aviators that take up half his face that nobody’s told him look stupid.

Mickey clears his throat, counts to ten, and says, “I gotta get out of here,” quickly, spitting out the words like they’re toxic. “Have to work at the shop, totally forgot they needed me today.” Neither of them mention that the shop is as dead on Mondays as it is every other day of the week, so Mickey adds, “inventory. Spring cleaning. You know. $7000 sunglasses aren’t gonna check themselves.”

“You want me to drive you?” Jeremy asks, sitting up. He really is a nice dude. It’ll be such a fucking shame if he’s also a contract killer.

“I’m fine,” Mickey says with a smile, and he is. It’s five miles back to his place by foot, but he loops around Miami and takes his time, just in case Jeremy’s following. He shouldn’t be, the whole staff had been vetted before he’d started. There were wiretaps and background checks and Mickey feels safe— _felt_ safe. This is all Ian Gallagher’s fault.

He calls Graham from his place, a fifth floor walk up they chose mostly for the inconvenience. Still, if he cranes his neck out the bathroom window, he can see a speck of sand and water, enough to call this beach-adjacent property, anyway.

Graham picks up on the third ring, says, “Yello,” like the loser he is, and Mickey feels his heart picking up speed in his chest, wonders if it’s residual from Jeremy, left over from the water, the exhilaration of actually standing on the board for thirty seconds before he almost wiped out, or—

Fucking Gallaghers. Hundreds of miles and over two years away, and they’re still making his life shit.

“Hi,” Mickey says, idly searching the apartment for his cigarettes. They’re expensive everywhere, but even moreso here. He has to smoke slow and buy in bulk. “It’s me.”

“Chet,” Graham says, warm like he’s happy to hear him, even though he's visiting his son in the northeast and getting pelted with so much rain somebody should probably build an ark soon. Miami is blue skies for miles around like usual, but Graham doesn't sound bitter about it. “How’s it going, son?”

Mickey tugs idly at a hangnail on his thumb and says, “I think I’ve been made,” near silently. His watch ticks the seconds by, and by his count, it’s been at least twenty before Graham swears under his breath.

“It’s not O’Halloran,” he says confidently, and of course it’s not. If it were Jimmy the Hip, Mickey’d be dead already, no questions asked.

“Nope,” he says, finally getting that cigarette, and pitching open the window by his bed. He leans against the sill, letting the smoke get out into the air and looks down at the tourist traffic clogging up the streets. It’s always like this, even in the dead of winter. Miami is where the old and rich go to get older and richer, with a side of skin cancer. Mickey’s seen that too. “This kid I.” Mickey cuts himself off, knuckling at his eye with his free hand and breathing in. “This kid from the neighborhood.”

Graham hums. He’s a singer, sort of. Always wanted to do opera, the faggot. He’s actually got a nice enough voice, not that Mickey really knows anything about music. “Was he involved with O’Halloran?”

“No.” Mickey says, doesn’t even have to think about it. “He’s just a kid. Just some stupid kid Mandy used to hang around with all the time.” He doesn’t think about Gallagher on his knees. Doesn’t think about himself returning the favor. 

“What’s he doing in Miami, then?” Graham asks.

Mickey has no fucking clue.

+

A few weeks go by. Jeremy forgives Mickey for being a spazz. They have sex on his grandfather’s boat, silhouetted by the sunset and the light noise of the water lapping against the wood, and it feels good, shit, it feels great, but Mickey can’t focus, thoughts pulled in all different directions.

“Yo,” Jeremy says, knuckling against Mickey’s side. It’s a tender move, but Mickey’s got bruises there. They’d played a game of pick-up ball before coming out here, just the two of them on an asphalt court. Nice as Jeremy is, he’s rough on the plays. 

Mickey pushes back and says, “What?” His eyes are closed, head pillowed against his arms on the railing. It’s starting to mist a little, it’ll probably rain later, but now it’s a nice way to combat the oppressive heat.

“You’re usually more into it than this, man,” Jeremy says with a laugh, squeezing his huge hands against Mickey’s hips. 

“I’m into it, I'm into it,” Mickey says, but mostly he’s not. Mostly he’s sleepy; exhausted from back to back late night shifts at the restaurant and early mornings at the store. He’s stopped looking over his shoulder for Ian Gallagher, but that doesn’t mean he won’t show up when he’s least expected. “Keep going,” Mickey mumbles, when Jeremy finally hits a sweet spot. “Right there.”

“You’re a total slut for me,” Jeremy smarms back, but he’s not a dick about it, he's teasing. He’s a talker in bed, outside of it, wherever they fuck, and even places they don’t. It’s probably the sound of his own voice he likes hearing, but Ian was never so vocal, and Mickey’s had sex with women who made less noise.

Mickey shrugs, appreciating the weight and feel of somebody else on him. In him. “I like what I like,” he says, but they’re both pretty quiet after that.

Jeremy comes before Mickey does, but it’s not for lack of trying, and when he pulls out, taking care of the condom, he says, “Dinner?” 

They’ve spent most of the day together, surfing in the morning before taking the boat out, and Mickey thinks about it as he jerks himself, imagines an afternoon and evening spent enjoying the slipping twilight.

“Gotta motor,” he says, wiping come against the flank of Jeremy’s leg and laughing at the surprised look on his face. “The boss lady wants to see me in her office later on tonight.” It’s not entirely a lie. Carolyn’s the only one who knows about his situation, and even then, it’s not much. She’s been told to identify anyone that asks after him and report it to either him or Graham, not that she knows their real names. 

He’s not looking forward to it, and says as much. He’s comfortable here in Miami. He likes the beach and his skin has even stopped burning so terribly in the sun. It’s not great, but it’s something.

“So don’t go,” Jeremy says, tugging one of Mickey’s hands in both of his and trying to pull him to the below-deck quarters. “The bed is mighty soft down there,” he says, like Mickey doesn’t know. It would be cute, if it weren’t mostly pathetic.

“Don’t you have plans with, uh.” Mickey tugs on his shorts, zipping up his fly. “Jeannie? Jeanine? Right? The one with the hot twin?”

Jeremy makes a face. “She doesn’t like anal.” 

Mickey laughs hard enough to hurt himself, a stomachache rumbling in his belly as he slides on his shoes, punches Jeremy on the shoulder once and climbs off the boat and topside. 

It’s about a twenty minute walk from the marina to the restaurant, and the strip is long, but the rain is still just a drizzle. Mickey makes it in record time.

Carolyn’s in her office when he gets there, and he knocks once before barging in, waiting for her gruff, “What is it?” to poke his head in. “Roberts,” she says, lighting a cigarette, even though they have a strict no-smoking policy in doors and anywhere near their establishment. Mickey’s always had a fine appreciation for people who break the rules so brazenly.

“Hi,” he says, and she gestures to the seat in front of her desk that’s not overflowing with paperwork. She offers him a cigarette from her pack, and Mickey takes it, even though they’re Camel Lights. “Can I help you? I know you wanted to see me.”

Carolyn rolls her eyes. She takes a drag from her cigarette. “Some kid was asking after you,” she says, pulling out a crumpled packet of Post-It notes from her desk drawer. “Stopped by a few weeks back. I remember, because he looked way too young to be limping that bad.” She pauses, considering, and Mickey tastes blood, he’s chewing so hard on his lip. 

“What, uh,” he says, but she shuts him up with a wave of her hand.

“And then,” she continues, like he hadn’t spoken at all. “He was here again this morning.” She shrugs. “One time, I figure, hey. He thought you were cute. I tell him we don’t give out that information, he goes home.” Mickey’s stomach tightens up with nerves; anticipation up his legs and down his spine. “But when Rico mentioned some kid with crutches came back today, I knew who it was right away. He left his name and contact info and asked that we tell you to give him a call.” 

She slides the Post-It across her desk, and Mickey takes it, not even looking down. 

“Is, uh,” he says. “Is that it?” 

She laughs him out of her office, and he runs the trip home, fingers curled pathetically over the piece of paper in his pocket. It’s such a pussy move. Fuck that, it’s such a _dangerous_ move, but that’s never stopped him before.

He takes the stairs up to his apartment at double time, not stopping to say hello even when his neighbors do. When he’s alone, windows locked and shades drawn, he pulls the note out of his pocket and just stares at it for a whole minute, just stares, like the loser he is. _Ian Gallagher_ , the note says in cramped, chicken-scratch handwriting. The number is smudged, but Mickey can still make it out. He should call Graham. He should get the fuck out of Miami.

He calls Ian Gallagher. The line rings three times, and then a fourth. He’s about to give up, clearly this was a stupid idea, but of course that’s when the phone picks up, and a voice he’d know anywhere mumbles out, “H’lo?” 

Mickey swallows, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Ian repeats himself, and finally Mickey says, “Uh, hey. This is Chet Roberts from Gregory’s. My manager said you came looking for me today.” He swallows, gearing up for the big lie. “She mentioned that you’d stopped by before, but I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”

The line is silent. Mickey paces the room. The blinds are still drawn, but this is Miami. There could be snipers trained for his apartment on every rooftop, and he’d never be able to tell.

“Chet,” Ian says, repeating it twice, and it’s bizarre, a head-fuck, to hear Ian Gallagher saying his name but not saying the right one. “You,” he says, and lets out a noisy breath, like he’s deflating. “I’m sorry to have bugged you. You just look a lot like a friend of mine.” He exhales noisily and then blurts, “I thought, maybe,” but leaves it at that.

Mickey’s stuck for things to say. He hasn’t talked to anyone from the South Side in over two years. He stopped calling Mandy after Huntington. It was easier after Janet died and he could actually see the fallout of his mistakes. He doesn’t really want to get anybody else killed. Not if he can help it.

“Maybe I know him,” Mickey hedges. “I, uh. I have a lot of cousins.”

Ian chuckles politely on his end, and Mickey tries to imagine what type of room he has; why the fuck he’s in Miami at all. It’s an expensive city, and if he remembers right, it’s not like the Gallaghers were ever rolling in it.

“I don’t think so,” Ian says eventually. “Thanks for your time.” He breathes out softly, relieved, like he thought he was going crazy and Mickey just confirmed it.

“Um,” Mickey says, and then, because he’s a really stupid fucker, and a soft touch, he says, “Hey, Firecrotch,” sinking down to the floor and below the windows, so if those snipers want to start firing, he has a little time to say his goodbyes. 

“Holy shit,” Ian squeaks, and from the thud he hears, Mickey’s pretty sure he’s dropped the phone. It’s funny, or maybe it should be, but Mickey’s throat is too tight for him to laugh. “I knew it was you,” Ian says after a minute, words coming out sloppy, toppling over each other. “I knew it was you and I thought I was going crazy, I called Lip and he—”

Mickey closes his eyes, expecting the worst. Lip Gallagher dosen’t owe him any fucking favors.

“Told him I thought I saw a guy from my platoon,” Ian’s saying, and Mickey’s eyes snap open so fast it’s not funny. Ian’s voice is still breathless. “Had his head split clean through our first week in Iraq, and Lip knew, Lip heard and so he knew, and I said.” He stops talking so quickly it’s like his breath has just run out. “I said it was Kenny,” he continues, eventually. “And Lip said maybe the military was shooting us with some kind of nerve gas, like.” He coughs, and Mickey can picture him, stretched out on a bed, shirt rucking up over his stomach from his distress. “Like maybe we were the experiment and Kenny was like Kim Novak in Vertigo.”

Mickey clears his throat and says, “I am a cool blonde, kid,” and he can practically hear Ian’s smile through the phone. He’s such an easy mark, it’s disgusting.

“Are, um,” Ian says, and then, “Do you want to get coffee or. Something. Can I see you? I just want.” All his sentences fall apart, but Mickey gets the gist. It’s a really stupid idea.

“You want to get my ass killed?” he says, but he wants to. “You hear anything from Mandy these days?”

Ian’s quiet for a while. For longer than a yes or no, anyway, but finally he says, “Yeah,” even more quietly than before. “Yeah, she’s okay, I think. Last I heard.” He hisses, mumbling something to somebody else in the room. “Tony still lives there, too. With your aunt and, um.”

Mickey blinks. He’s staring at the wall across the room but not paying attention to it. There’s dust hanging out by the electrical socket. He should really vacuum in here sometime. “Yeah,” Mickey says. “And Shawn?”

“He’s, um,” Ian says, and Mickey closes his eyes again, leans back against the carpet, but he doesn't hang up, has to hear it anyway. “He’s, um,” It doesn’t even sound like Ian’s really speaking at all. “He’s in prison. Petty larceny. I’m sorry.”

+

They get coffee on two days later, on a Wednesday. He usually works at the shop weekday mornings, but they’re training a new hire, both bosses in town, and they don’t need him. No sense paying an extra body when they don’t even need the three people they’ve already got scheduled.

He picks a place that’s out of the way, not close to his apartment or the restaurant, just some random Starbucks with outside seating and discreet ashtrays, even though they promote a non-smoking environment.

Mickey’s ten minutes early, but Ian Gallagher is even earlier, sitting at the table furthest away from the others, hands crossed on the rust-colored tabletop. He smiles when he sees Mickey, looking panicked, and tries to stand before belatedly remembering his limited mobility.

He flails a little, looking embarrassed, but eventually sits back down again and says, “Hi,” flushing to the roots of his hair.

“Hey,” Mickey says, swinging his legs under the booth and trying not to kick any of Ian’s vital organs. They stare at each other for a while, because even when they were fucking, even when they lived less than a mile apart, they never did this, just shot the shit just to shoot it. “So,” Mickey says, chewing on the corner of his mouth.

Ian mirrors his actions, and after a weird minute of silence, their eyes meet and the laughter comes out of nowhere. Mickey has no idea why he’s laughing, his brother’s in jail, and he’ll probably never see his sister again, but he’s here with Ian Gallagher in sunshine that plays off his hair and makes it look like a halo. It’s not the worst way he’s ever spent a morning.

“So hey,” Ian says after a while, fixing himself up to sit up straighter and look serious. By Mickey’s count, there are fourteen scars on his face. They’re not all obvious. The only one that’s really bad is on his cheek.

“What the fuck are you doing in Florida, Firecrotch?” Mickey asks. He’s expecting Ian to laugh again, maybe, but he doesn’t. “Miami, even. Who the fuck comes to Miami?”

Ian shrugs. “You did,” he says quietly.

“I had to.” Mickey doesn’t mince words. He stands, and Ian eyes him warily. “I’m just, uh,” he says. “Drink?”

“Sure,” he says, and reaches for his wallet, even though he’s wincing as he does it. There are probably cuts and bruises all over the rest of him, too, if his face is any indication. Mickey’s not surprised that he wants to see them, but he is surprised by how much. Fucking Gallaghers.

“I got it.” Mickey shoves Ian’s hand out of the way, making sure not to do it too gentle, or anything. The worst thing you can do to a person that’s hurt is to treat them like they're delicate. “Shit, Firecrotch, I probably make more in a week than you do in a year. Trust me.” He waits for Ian's order. "What do you want?"

“Uh. I haven’t really.” He squints, embarrassed, and who knew a guy that fought in a war zone could still blush. Mickey doesn’t stare at his face, even though he probably could and get away with it. “Just. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Mickey shrugs and heads inside to order. The barista behind is a girl that comes to the restaurant all the time to score. She’s pretty, in a spacey way, with lots of blonde hair tucked into weird braids all over her head. Total hippie chick, but at least she’s nice. Mandy would eat her for breakfast.

She smiles at Mickey in recognition, gives him one of his drinks for free and says, “See you later, maybe?” to his retreating back. He’s grinning the whole way outside until he sees this dude, some guy stopped and talking to Ian. They’re both crouched over, leaning under the table, and Mickey recognizes the tightness in his gut as jealousy and reigns it in. 

It’s not a new thing, being territorial over Ian Gallagher, but but it’s not something he’s thought about in years.

“Hey,” he says, setting their drinks down. The guy steps back, and it’s—of course it is—the guy he’d been having dinner with at the restaurant a few weeks back. Mickey smiles his brightest waiter smile and says, “How ya doing? I’m Chet Roberts.” He holds his hand out, and Ian’s friend, obviously surprised, reaches out to shake. Mickey doesn’t stop grinning, but he squeezes tight. Terry Milkovich didn’t teach him a lot, but the importance of a crushing handshake was right up there on the list with Respect Your Mother and Family Is Everything. 

At least one out of three ain’t bad.

Ian’s friend looks confused, peering at him like he knows him, and then says, “This is so rude of me, but,” with some fake, university-dick laugh and, “didn’t you wait our table a few weeks ago? Gregory’s at the Villas?”

Mickey smiles, keeps smiling, and says, “I sure did,” and tries not to gag himself.

Ian says, “Scott was just walking Chance,” breaking the ice, and gesturing toward the tiny puppy hiding out underneath the table. Mickey’s never seen a dog that small and says so, and Ian grins at him again, obviously anxious, but trying. In the sunlight, his scar gleams silver. “And he, uh,” Ian says. “Saw me and wanted to say hi.”

Scott grins, leaning his hand on Ian’s shoulder. Mickey hasn’t broken any limbs in a while, but he’s seriously considering coming back from his self-imposed hiatus. “This guy hasn’t been returning my calls,” he says, leaning in toward Mickey like Mickey’s actually going to be on his side. God, he hates these college kid fuckers.

Mickey imagines breaking his nose, imagines the bruises under his eyes and the swelling and feels better about everything for a minute. “Scott’s dad was my CO,” Ian says quietly, and they both turn back to face him. He smiles, or tries to, but Mickey knows his face. “He’s been showing me around while I get the, um,” he stops again, words stalling in his throat. “I’m getting uh. Reconstructive surgery, maybe. For my face.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your face,” Mickey says, before he even really thinks about it, and the smile he gets from Ian in return hits him right in his gut.

“That’s what I keep saying,” Scott says, trying to fit in.

He can’t, though, he’s not welcome, and Ian doesn’t take his eyes off Mickey as he says, “See you later, okay? M—Chet. Chet and me gotta. We have a thing.” 

It’s the weakest excuse, and it's slow going, considering Ian's walking with crutches, but they get away with it.

Maybe they can go to the beach or something, or maybe a late breakfast, but Mickey hears himself say, “You want to come to back to my apartment?” and even though it’s a stupid idea, he doesn’t take it back.

Ian looks surprised, taking a sip from his iced tea before answering. “How do you know you can trust me?” he asks eventually. The scar on his face is just visible from where Mickey’s standing, and he wants to touch it, maybe, see what the bumped skin feels like under his hands.

“I don’t,” Mickey says.

“It’s a really dumb idea,” It is, but it also doesn’t sound like he’s saying no. “I mean, for all you know, I could be—” he stops, and Mickey watches as he shakes himself out of it. “That’s really dumb,” he says. “Of course I want to go to your apartment. Obviously.”

Mickey snorts. “Oh, it’s obvious?” he says, but he drops his arm across Ian’s shoulders, squeezing once.

“Don’t you think?” Ian asks. “I mean. You’re supposed to be dead, right?” He looks Mickey straight in the eye and is suddenly older than he’s ever been. “You’re supposed to be dead, and I was there when your body was cremated. We got the money together at the Alibi, even though nobody wanted to contribute. We did it. I did it. We baked cookies and made our own beer and I gave up two weeks of paychecks to cover it because we didn’t make enough. I was there. And I was there when Mandy went—she went crazy after you died,” he whispers, like maybe Mickey missed it somehow.

“Gallagher,” Mickey says, but Ian shakes his head. He looks pained.

“I’m just saying.” Ian swallows and shifts his weight, leaning more heavily on his left side rather than his right one. “Either you’re dead, right? Because you are dead. I know you are, because I was there. So either you are dead and I’m completely losing my shit, or—”

“Or,” Mickey says. He doesn’t lean closer and thank fuck, Ian doesn’t either. He’s learned about personal space in the military.

“Or you’re not dead and I’m not crazy.”

Mickey clears his throat, looking out over the beach. The sky is a bright, clear, cloudless blue and the city’s already swarming with tourists. “You’re not crazy,” he says.


End file.
